My mother has always loved hikes. When we were in England, and found ourselves in total disagreement about what to do there, hiking was what we could always return to.
Living with lung cancer is hard. It infects her daily life so much that it often leaves her in tears. How do you deal with the prospect that you’re in too much pain to ride long in the car? When you’re too weak to walk very far? When you are so out of breathe, you just can’t afford to sit in the sun?
She deals with it. Every day. With grace.
Yesterday afternoon we took the car to as high up in Berkeley as you can go. We stared out the window as we drove, and listened to an Indian master talk about life and death through the car stereo. We stopped. Enjoyed the scenery. And got back in. I took videos and pictures.
The time we spent at the park was mostly wonderful, but even that had its challenges and pitfalls.
A walk over a stream on a wooden bridge, wheelchair rattling over the boards. Merry (my godmother) told us a story about how she had been on a similar bridge before, but she could see alligators popping up their heads beneath.
A sit by the lake, resting, with my mom in the shade. Children ran by in bright green shirts. Enjoying the nature. The camp counselors called out to them like sheep herders. Asking them to form groups, play games, and follow them back to the camp.
A picnic on the hill above the parking lot. The wheelchair parked peacefully by the cars. It looked as though it had helped many on their paths. We ate bread, cheese, turkey, and hard boiled eggs. We savored the moment, each and every one of us with so many different reasons.
